Red, White & Royal Blue

by Casey McQuiston

“Do either of y’all know what a viscount is?” June is saying, halfway through a cucumber sandwich. “I’ve met, like, five of them, and I keep smiling politely as if I know what it means when they say it. Alex, you took comparative international governmental relational things. Whatever. What are they?” “I think it’s that thing when a vampire creates an army of crazed sex waifs and starts his own ruling body,” he says.

“Aw, little buddy,” Nora says. She reaches over and pats his hand. “It’s cute how you think everything is about you.” “It should be, honestly.” “That’s the spirit.”

the minute you see a camera, you act like the sun shines out of his dick, and you make it convincing.”

“Does he get one of these for me?” Alex asks helplessly. “Yep. And for the record, making it was one of the most depressing moments of my career.”

“Age of first filibuster: nine, at SeaWorld San Antonio, trying to force an orca wrangler into early retirement for, quote, ‘inhumane whale practices.’ ”

“I’m going to throw up on you,”

“Oh,” Alex says. “Wow, you’re wrong.” Henry huffs out the tiniest, most poshly indignant puff of air. It smells minty. Alex resists the urge to throw another elbow.

“No booty calls,” Alex tells him, and Henry chokes on a laugh.

“One good thing, one bad thing,” she says. “Let’s do this.” It’s her lifelong system for catching up on their days when she’s at her busiest. Alex grew up with a mother who was a sometimes baffling combination of intensely organized and committed to lines of emotional communication, like an overly invested life coach.

“Wait, oh my God, is it fan fiction about yourself? And you didn’t invite me? Who do they have you boning now? Did you read the one I sent you with Macron? I died.”

You are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life.

THEY KNOW, he texts Henry. THEY KNOW I HAVE ROBBED THEM OF FIVE-STAR ACCOMMODATIONS TO SIT IN A CAGE IN MY ROOM, AND THE MINUTE I TURN MY BACK THEY ARE GOING TO FEAST ON MY FLESH. Cornbread stares emptily back at him from inside a huge crate next to Alex’s couch. A farm vet comes by once every few hours to check on them. Alex keeps asking if she can detect a lust for blood.

Henry will send a snap from a seven a.m. polo practice and promptly receive one of Alex at two a.m., glasses on and coffee in hand, in bed with a pile of notes.

“Right, now hold it,” Henry says. “Connect with the turkey, earn the turkey’s trust . . . befriend the turkey .

“Please do smack me if this is out of line, but you are the most exquisite woman I have ever seen in my life, and I would like to procure for you the most lavish drink in this establishment if you will let me.” “Uh,”

Alex says. “You’re a charmer,” June says, smiling indulgently. “And you are a goddess.”

“Please tell me nobody is going to dry hump me,” Henry says.

“Christ, you are as thick as it gets,” he says, and he grabs Alex’s face in both hands and kisses him.

“Remember when we dated?” Nora swallows a massive bite and grins. “Why yes, I do, Alejandro.” Alex forces a laugh. “So, knowing me as well as you do—” “In the biblical sense.”

“I fucking knew it,” she says. “Still waters, deep dicking.” “Stop,” he groans. “Prince Henry is a biscuit,” Nora says, “let him sop you up.” “I’m leaving.”

You spent the entire New Year’s party straight-up ignoring the who’s who of hot people who want to fuck America’s most eligible bachelor to literally watch Henry stand next to the croquembouche.

mean, er, should we, I dunno, slow down?” Henry says, cringing so hard at himself that one eye closes. “Go for dinner first, or—” Alex is actually going to kill him. “We just had dinner.” “Right. I meant—I just thought—” “Stop thinking.” “Yes. Gladly.”

“Fuck, you look—fuck.” Henry fumbles with his shirt tail, eyes wide, and starts humming “God Save the Queen” under his breath. “What are you doing?” “Christ, I’m trying to make it”—he gestures inelegantly at the front of his pants—“go away.”

climbs up the length of Henry’s body, watching his face grow anxious, eager. “Hi,” he says, when he reaches Henry’s eye level. “Hello,” Henry says back. “I’m gonna take your pants off now,” Alex tells him. “Yes, good, carry on.”

“So,” Alex says, changing tracks by stretching languidly, “I guess I should tell you, I’m bisexual.” “Good to know,” Henry says. His eyes flicker down to Alex’s hip, where it’s bared above the sheet, and he says as much to himself as to Alex, “I am very, very gay.”

“For fuck’s sake, man, you just had my dick in your mouth, you can kiss me good-night.” Henry looks back up at him, his mouth open and incredulous, and he throws his head back and laughs, and it’s only him, the nerdy, neurotic, sweet, insomniac rich guy who constantly sends Alex photos of his dog, and something slots into place. He leans down and kisses him fiercely, and then he’s grinning and gone.

“Yep.” “Enjoy your summit with the English delegation,

Beneath it, Zahra has begrudgingly written: Good work, you little shit.

Remus John Lupin is gay as the day is long, and I won’t hear a word against it.”

Walt Whitman, the Laws of Illinois 1961, The White Night Riot, Paris Is Burning.

Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor.”

“I’m not . . . historically great at talking about things,” Henry says. “Well, I wasn’t historically great at blowjobs, but we all gotta learn and grow, sweetheart.”

Gran sat me down the day I finished my A levels and made it abundantly clear I was not to let anyone know about any deviant desires I might be beginning to harbor that might reflect poorly upon the crown, and there were appropriate channels to maintain appearances if necessary. So.”

Alex paces the Solarium and listens to Henry talk, stories about a man with Henry’s same sandy hair and strong, straight nose, someone Alex has met in shadows that pass through the way Henry speaks and moves and laughs. He hears about sneaking out of the palace and joyriding around the countryside, learning to sail, being propped up in director’s chairs. The man Henry remembers is both superhuman and heartbreakingly flesh and blood, a man who encompassed Henry’s entire childhood and charmed the world but was also simply a man. The way Henry talks about him is a physical feat, drifting up in the corners with fondness but sagging in the middle under the weight.

“I miss you,” Alex says before he can stop himself. He instantly regrets it, but Henry says, “I miss you too.”

DRaw

I can’t believe our ancestors survived centuries of wars and plagues and genocide just to wind up with your sorry ass.” She throws a pillow at him, and Alex scream-laughs

Pez seems to have been in on the secret all along. Alex imagines he demanded an explanation when Henry literally made them flee the country under the cover of night after putting his tongue in Alex’s mouth in the Kennedy Garden.

‘When will they notice us’—” “Don’t tell him that!” “—and now I just ask Henry, ‘What is your secret?’ And he says, ‘I insult Alex all the time and that seems to work.’ ” “I

Alex’s is a lurid teal and says HOE DAMERON.

so the embroidery across the back reads PRINCE BUTT.

“Bisexuality is truly a rich and complex tapestry,”